


Look, but Don't Touch

by Astria



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Color Touch AU, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hawke is afraid of touch, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Soulmates, just a little bit of blood and mentions of gore. Not much.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astria/pseuds/Astria
Summary: Varric had thought he'd seen color once.But if Bianca's color was a wave, Hawke was a tsunami.A Varric x Hawke Color Touch Soulmate AU.





	1. Look, and Hope

**Author's Note:**

> A little color touch AU for one of my favorite Dragon Age pairings. Warnings for blood, fighting, wounds, and mentions of gore. Nothing too detailed.  
> The characters and settings in this story belong to Bioware.

At one point, Varric had truly thought that he had seen color.

Bianca was lovely. Lively and beautiful, headstrong and exactly what Varric had always seen himself looking for in a partner. He had longed to touch her the moment they had met, but the customs deemed that impolite. Courtship, and all. So he moved slowly, tactfully, to nurture what he saw in her; _with_ her. He had just made up his mind to ask for her hand, literally, the moment he saw her red faced and proud, holding a hefty crossbow in her arms and outstretched towards his broad chest. He hadn’t meant to touch her just then, really. To this day he’d swear it was an accident. Because as he grabbed the heavy crossbow from her arms, he miscalculated the weight, and the two dwarves came colliding together in a fumble to catch the thing.

It was a soft, subtle transition, then. What seemed to be a cool tone began to sprout out around him, mostly within the stone walls lining the passage in which they currently resided. Color hadn’t been nearly as exciting as Varric had been expecting, but things did seem to become brighter. He had looked at Bianca then, a tentative smile gracing his lips, and eyes blown wide in excitement.

She had looked unfazed and unfocused.

That should have been the first sign.

He had shifted the crossbow over to one hand with slight difficulty, then, and with the other, had reached out shyly to grab hers, which were still outstretched. He was beaming, imagining where they would go from here. They could see color! She was the one, his soul mate. But when he asked her how it had felt, the revelation, the color blooming into the world around them, she hadn’t answered. She simply gave Varric a saddened smile and looked down the passage to her right. At the time Varric had passed this off to had been a token shy moment from his lady love. A women usually so collected, finally flustered from _his_ touch.

He had been wrong.

Bianca, after that, had given him a short but sweet time to play on romance. Enough for her to utterly steal his heart, but not destroy her reputation when she, ultimately, ended them. And boy, did she end them. She married someone else; and that alone could have killed Varric more easily than a sword to the heart, had he not found solace in assuming the marriage was purely political. Purely political, yet still completely closed to outside influence. She would not be swayed into affair by anyone, she had said. Not even him.

Her soul mate.

So, the first opportunity Varric had for an out, he had hauled out Bianca (the crossbow, unfortunately), and taken it. That out had led him to Kirkwall, and Kirkwall had led him to the search for money with his brother. And that search, his unfunded expedition, had led him to her.

Hawke.

A beautiful whirlwind of a human woman with pale, light hair and so many freckles that the number of dots on her face rivaled the amount of stars in the night sky. Maker, he had never seen so many freckles in his life. They dwarfed her other features in comparison, to the point that you couldn’t even see where her eyes began with them closed. But she was still stunningly beautiful, in her own way, with a sweet, bubbly voice that frequently had Varric tumbled over in laughter from her wit, and eyes so sharp, pointed and determined that they alone could likely stop a rogue thief dead in their tracks. And there was also that line she bared across her nose, streaky but ever present along her features. He had wondered many a times what it would be like to feel that mark. Was it wet or dry? Rough or smooth? Yet he pushed those thoughts away. Bianca or not, it was improper to touch anyone without explicit permission, and Hawke, despite her easy nature and tendency for play, had what seemed to be a strong aversion to touch.

This was why, Varric assumed, that she prefered to fight towards the back of the battle, as unassuming as possible as not to attract unwanted enemy advances. She was spot on in her aim, of course, but as Varric had heard from one of her many childhood stories, arisen from her memories after she had had perhaps one too many of the Hanged Man’s shite ales, she had not been originally trained with a bow. She had begun with daggers, and was apparently quite adept with them, too. Yet, she had given them up out of the blue one day, according to Bethany. Had decided to pursue the bow and ranged combat options for “convenience's sake”. Varric was not so sure. He was also not sure that her thick layer of clothes that she always done, covering every inch of her exposed skin other than her face, was due to her tendency to always feel cold. So he never pressed the issue of touching Hawke; had never even suggested it, really. She was untouchable, completely off limits for foreign hands to peruse, and anyone who thought otherwise usually received a swift arrow to the chest.

That’s why, when out of the blue on day, Merrill, only having been with the party for about a month or so now, had asked Hawke nonchalantly for her to remove her tattered jacket so she could try to mend her battered arm after a fight, Varric was both prepared and not prepared for her reaction.

Hawke had always been a fairly collected woman; her moves were calculated and precise, and her witty jabs were always spur of the moment and brilliant. Yet, when the wide eyed Dalish elf suggested Hawke bare her skin to her, Hawke’s eyes flashed brilliantly in fear, and she physically staggered away from the nearing elf, tripped over herself backwards, and landed on her hurt arm hard enough to make her cry out in the first display of verbal discomfort Varric had ever heard from her. Merrill had went still at that, had backed away and wrung her hands together in discomfort. She apologized to Hawke, stumbling over her words, frantically trying to explain herself,

“Hawke- I, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t think of the customs sooner, my apologies. The Dalish, we- we’re so used to touch, I hadn’t even _thought-_ ”

But Hawke, eyes downcast as she rose slowly from the ground, simply held up her good hand in a gesture for Daisy to stop. She hoisted her bow slowly onto her back, her breath hitching in a pain she was trying desperately to disguise, and made her way silently back towards her Lowtown home. Varric had longed to reach for her then, to grab her hand and tell her that none of them thought ill of her for it. That they understood. He let her go.

It took Hawke about a week of solitude to return after the event, and at the end of that week she was back to her perfectly bubbly, witty self. If they ever thought of what had happened, no one talked of it again; and, anyone who knew Hawke worth a damn knew never to mention touching her if they wanted to stay in her good graces. So, Varric moved alongside her for a while, never touching, but always beside her, coming along on every mission until Hawke’s coin purse had been weighed down by fifty gold sovereigns, and they were on their way to start the harrowing expedition that had started it all.

\-------------------------------------------

To his surprise, Hawke had brought Daisy and Broody into the Deeps with her. Merrill, though a brilliant and powerful Mage, had been quite tense towards Hawke since the incident. She had treated her almost like she were a broken woman, something that Hawke was surely not. Perhaps Hawke thought this a show of good standing towards the Dalish elf; a confirmation that it was behind them. Fenris, on the other hand, was a strange choice on all respects. They had never quite gotten along as Hawke was ever protective of her darling sister, and quite verbal on her views on Mage rights. He was a great sword, sure, but there were other, more agreeable options she could have taken on an extended journey into an underground road infested with darkspawn. Then again, he had never once even entertained the idea of touching Hawke. Perhaps that was why.

And of course, Varric was there, always around to guard her six as they hailed arrows back to back in impending fights. That was the closest Varric had ever come to truly touching Hawke; their backs touching behind layers and layers of light armors, and their bow and crossbow respectively raining death. And, if the friction he felt ever became too much, and he longed to turn once the fight was over, take her face in his hands, and kiss her because _damn_ did she shine after she had just won a battle, he never said. He’d been with her for at least a year now, through countless scrimmages and drunken nights in the Hanged Man, laughing over nothing until they’d passed out in their seats, and he had never felt a pull so strong towards a woman in his life. Not a single tavern girl he’d see on occasion, when longing for Bianca had been too much, and not even the dwarf herself, who he had not seen in years. Hawke was like a magnet to him. But he never acted upon any urges he might have had, to reach out and trace her freckled skin, and place his lips on the streak that always ran across her nose. She would not be touched, and he had already found his mate. In a dwarf who had cast him aside for another. No, urges or not, Hawke would not be touched; there was no point. Color would not bloom between them, as it already had with Bianca, and he was sure the stress even the thought of it would bring to Hawke was far too great to warrant feeding his curiosity of what her flesh would feel like under his calloused touch. So he stayed strong.

Until she fell.

They had been fighting endlessly through the taige after his brother’s betrayal. Fatigue was at an all time high, and Merrill and Fenris had split off, so they could try and cover ground more easily in order to find an exit. They had been fine until they had wandered into a room of directed light, and were trapped and faced down with countless darkspawn closing in from each direction. They had taken up their typical back to back stance, then, and were fairing fine until a Genlock broke away from the horde and took Hawke by surprise, dragging her away, and throwing her bow to the side. Varric was helpless to do anything but fight off the rest of the horde, while Hawke frantically slashed with hidden daggers he did not know she had. She made quick, precise work with the spawn, but not before he had thrown her, hard, into one of the many pillars about the room. She fell then, unceremoniously, to the ground with a scream, and Varric didn’t even have time to cry out before she hit the floor. He aimed and killed the Genlock in one swift move, then, and moved hurriedly to her side.

He made quick work of the rest of the spawn, who by that time were in single digit amounts, and then knelt beside Hawke’s unconscious form. She had a considerable amount of blood coming from a wound in her head, but was certainly alive as her breath was coming hard and ragged from her lips. Varric did not know what to do. She needed pressure on the wound so he could wait until Daisy eventually found them and could close it up. But that would mean touching her, breaking her trust. Finally _feeling_ Hawke; something he wasn’t so certain he could come back from unchanged. He was divided, but, as Hawke’s breathing became more labored and she seemed to be fading from him he made his choice, lifted her to rest carefully on his knees, removed his gloves as not to ruin them with her blood, and pressed carefully onto her wound.

If Bianca’s color was a wave, then Hawke was a tsunami.

The second his skin made contact the world sprung to life around him, colors painting everything he could see. He almost released Hawke it was so surprising. Her blood was a deep, vibrant color that was the same shade as the mark that stretched along her nose, ever present. Her skin was prettier than his, creamy, and dotted with those same freckles that now were the same dark, muddied color as her leathers that she wore. The walls around them, cast in the glow of the pillar maze were a dusty and muted color combination of her freckles and her blood. And Hawke was so beautiful, then; the most beautiful, and wonderful thing that Varric had ever seen in his life. She stole his breath, and the feel of her under his hands, despite the blood that had slowed slightly but was still coming through the gaps in his fingers, was the most wonderful and _right_ feeling Varric had ever felt. He had known, then, that the “color” he had seen when he touched Bianca had been false; something he had imagined because he felt so strongly that he would see it. Hawke was the one. His soul mate. And all those urges that he had felt over the past year, to touch her, to hold her in his arms and kiss the breath out of her lungs both after she was ravaged from a fight, and when they sat, late at night, alone in the Hanged Man, all made sense. He had loved her from afar, and now, as color engulfed his world and tugged at his heart, he was in love with her, there, kneeling and holding her in the deep roads, her blood tainting his fingers.

Hawke. His soul mate. Rosaline. _Freckles_.

A nickname he’d decided awhile ago yet had never called her, for fear that seeing her light up in response to it would cause him to react too strongly. He’d start now, he decided, when she awoke. She deserved a pet name and had jokingly asked about why she did not have one on more than one occasion. Now, when he was so certain that he’d do anything for her, for the woman whose skin gave him sight, how could he deny her even that? He was almost laughing now,tears stinging his eyes, the joy almost overwhelming were it not for her grave state. And as such, he sat thoughts in tatters and his world beautiful and bright, yelling frantically for Merrill and Fenris to come their way.

They arrived in record time then, and Daisy set out right away to close Hawke’s wound, taking extra precautions not to touch her has she worked her spells. When they had found them, Varric cradling Hawke in his arms, crying and beaming at her unconscious form like she was the last drop of water in a drought, they had not known what to make of the situation. For Daisy, he was sure the reality of what had passed between he and Hawke had gone straight over her head the second she had seen her wound. Fenris, however, not distracted by healing the fallen rogue, had had his eyes narrowly cast towards Varric ever since he had reluctantly released Hawke, and had stood against a nearby pillar, eyes never leaving her battered frame. He surely had a guess as to what had transpired, no doubt, but Varric, even if asked, was not prepared to tell the elf what had happened before even talking about it to Hawke.

Hawke.

How would she feel when she woke? She’d see the colors, surely, as he had. Would she be happy, scared? Would she know it had been him, touching and holding her as she had bled, that had given her her sight? Hopefully she’d react positively to the revelation, and not as she once had with Merrill and her suggestion of touch. He wasn’t so sure he could live through Hawke hating him. Wasn’t sure he could withstand seeing her shrink away from him and run. Merrill stood from her side and moved to talk to Varric.

“Sh’ll be fine, d’nt worry.” Her accent seemed to become thicker when she was tired and drained. “Shou’d wake in a bit, I think. She’s lucky you were there, Varric. Had she lost any more blood than she had, she might’nt of made it.”

He puffed up slightly at this verification, _hoping_ that Merrill’s validation of his efforts would ease the sting Hawke would surely feel about being touched. “Thanks, Daisy. Go rest up. You and Broody should make a camp while I look after Hawke. She should be up in a bit. She’s tough.” He beamed at Merrill, who looked grateful at his suggestion for rest. She marched off in search for a nearby space to camp that wasn’t covered in darkspawn blood and gore, dragging along Fenris, who, for a moment, had looked as if he had wanted to stay behind and talk to Varric. Must have decided against it.

As he waited, now alone save a sleeping Hawke, he thought of what he would say. He longed to reach out and touch her again, to feel her warm skin underneath his own as if he was starved and she was his chance of restoration. But he would not, he decided. Not until he knew for certain Hawke would allow it. Soul mate or not, Hawke had the right to deny him should she still not wish for herself to be touched, even by him. So he waited by her side, kneeling next to her and writing down a description of her colors in a notebook he had kept with him for his Deep Roads trek while she slept. When she awoke he scarcely noticed, he was so engrossed in his written diagnosis. It was her soft gasp that had given her away.

When he looked down, her eyes, a beautiful soft color, not unlike the shade of her hair but warmer, brighter, he noted, had been blown wide as she looked nowhere but his face, her expression one of bewilderment, and an emotion Varric had seen from her on occasion but had never quite been able to place.

“Varric, you’re-”

She sounded breathless. He couldn’t tell if that was due to the colors she’d surely be seeing, or if it was a side effect of the beating she had received from the Genlock.

“Yes, _Freckles_. I’m in color now.” He smiled sweetly down at her, though his eyes likely betrayed his nervousness. “How’s your head? You got quite a nasty gash from a Genlock earlier.”

She didn’t laugh or smile as he had hoped. In fact, tears brimmed on Hawke’s lashline, and they didn’t seem to be all that happy, as his had been. She sat up slowly, wincing slightly as the movement rocked her head, and Varric backed away to allow her some more room. She was schooling her tears well, not a single one had run down her cheeks. Yet.

“So, you’re my…” She trailed off, as if not wanting to complete her thoughts. “It _is_ you, right? Not sure I could take it if you told me this…” she hesitated, as if unable to say the word ‘color’, “has come from a certain Lyrium branded elf who has a harsh tendency to throw bottles of perfectly good wine for sport.”

There was a slight hint of her usual humor in there, he noticed. Varric took that as a good sign. However, despite this, her words shook and the tears he’d noticed earlier still threatened to fall. He took her pause as a chance to attone.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Hawke. But your blood- you were fading, I could tell. I had to _do_ something. I couldn’t let you die. Daisy said if I hadn’t-” now it was his chance to choke up with both nerves and fear; he could have lost her. He had been so engrossed with the colors that he hadn’t even thought of that till now.

Hawke shuddered at his confirmation that, yes, she had been touched. By Varric. Her soul mate. She looked slightly ashamed to be acting so adversely to what was supposed to be a cheerful revelation. “It’s okay, Varric. I understand.”

The weight in his throat lifted slightly and he sighed in relief. Without thinking he raised his hand, reaching for her face that he so dearly longed to touch again. Reaching-

Until, frantically, she jumped away. She had skittered across the floor, away from him as if her life had depended on it. Her beautiful eyes were wide and scared, and he retracted his hand immediately. When she had relaxed a bit, moments later, she looked as if she were about to burst.

“Just-” She choked out, “just don’t do it again, Varric. Thank you, but you don’t have to force yourself.”

Force himself? She was one to talk, clearly forcing herself to smile at him. Smile as if nothing were wrong and she had not just been scared of his touch, still, as if it would burn her. He respected that she did not want to be touched, but he wanted to know why. Was it him? He was a dwarf, and though he did not see Hawke being the type, maybe she was upset that a dwarf was her soulmate? Or was it just her fear of touch in general, that he had seen displayed so many subtle times through their time together that he had once thought that he would never get a chance to touch her soft (he had noticed that, at least) skin that was so beautifully dusted with freckles.

He was about to deny it, _I haven’t forced a thing, Freckles. In fact, I’m actually in love with you. Have been for awhile. Surprise._ but he didn’t think that wise. Hawke already looked unstable, for once, like she could break at any moment, and Varric wasn’t so sure a declaration of his love for her, especially as it would likely come as a complete surprise to Hawke, would be the wisest thing to do at the moment. So he simply smiled and shook his head, standing, and offering a gloved hand towards Hawke’s own, gloved hand. She took it with reluctance, as if she didn’t trust their gloves to stay between them while she stood.

“Of course, _Freckles_.” He thought, maybe, she had blushed at that. Maybe. “I had Daisy and Broody set up a camp a little ways away from here. Thought you’d appreciate a clean sleeping area. Wouldn’t want you getting any genlock gore in your pretty hair, now would we?”

He was mentally slapping himself for that last comment, but he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful, and with this new, colorful revelation they had had between them, Varric wanted her to know. Even if she still could not stand his touch. He didn’t look to see her reaction, just led her silently to their camp where an anxious Merrill waited. Apparently she couldn’t sleep without affirming Hawke was alright.

When it got later, and sleep had threatened to take both of the overworked women, they retired to their tents, leaving Fenris alone with Varric. A moment he had hopped would not occur.

After a moment, Fenris broke the silence. “Dwarf-” his deep, monotonous voice began, “Hawke. And, you. Did you…”

An unspoken question. One Varric wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. Wasn’t sure he had the _right_ to answer. When he was silent for a few moments too long, Fenris continued;

“You touched her. I have my assumptions on what has happened, given the state we found you in, but I’d like your confirmation on where you stand. Please, Varric.”

He didn’t commonly use his name, preferring to refer to him just as “dwarf” or something else equally unfamiliar, and that threw Varric off a bit. He looked at the elf in a new light, then, and noticed something he hadn’t seen before. Yearning. He, too, was in love with Hawke.

He had a funny way of showing it.

It would have been cruel, knowing this, and not telling him the truth.

“Yeah, Broody. She’s my soulmate.” He did not revel in telling the elf this. Fenris looked taken slightly aback, like he was still denying what he had thought. He was silent for quite awhile, torment behind his eyes.

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “Do you love her?”

Varric didn’t even have to think to know his answer, “Desperately.”

Fenris, though clearly upset, looked resigned and content with his answer. Then, after he rose and started to retreat to his tent, he turned back to Varric, one last question on his mind;

“Does she, Hawke- Love you, too?” Varric thought about it for a moment, then gave Fenris a sad smile, defeated.

“I don’t know.”


	2. Touch, and See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's has a few scars that aren't easily mended. Varric unknowingly helps a little.

At one point, long ago, Rosaline Hawke had seen color. But that was then, and it had left as quickly as it had come. 

She’d been young, long before the blight, with a pair of cheap daggers in her hands and her sister by her side. They had been out hunting, looking for “food” they had said; but really, Carver was sick, and they thought  _ maybe _ if they could just find him a bit of elfroot out in the dense forest behind their home, the first home they had ever had, he’d recover. At the time, Rosaline was not phased by anything that would come her way. She was far too naive to be truly daunted by the wars of the world. But, when a tussle with a bear had led to Bethany, still new and unaccustomed to her powers, being forced to use her magic out in the open, and a young boy, only slightly younger than Hawke at the time, had seen it all, Hawke had never been so scared in her life. 

She’d used her speed, one of the many perks of her roguish trainings, and had tackled the boy before he could even scream. Yet, when Hawke’s hand had come up, fast, to cover the boy’s mouth, they both jumped, their world enlightened. 

Color. 

It was brilliant and beautiful and  _ terrifying.  _

Because he’d kill them, if the raised bow he had before being tackled by Hawke was anything to go by. Or, even more likely, if allowed to go he’d tell the Templars about Bethany. She’d be lost. 

Hawke would not allow that. 

So, frantic and without a second thought, Hawke rose a shaking dagger to the boy’s throat, her  _ soulmate’s throat _ , and had watched as the life had left his soft, moss colored eyes. 

And had felt the life leave her own, as well. 

She had killed him, for reasons that were never even confirmed. A boy younger than her, his name not even known. Because she’d been scared; because Bethany had been at stake, her little sister, who was so fragile and so scared of the Templars that even leaving their house had her shaking these days. But Hawke had felt his loss as if she had taken her own life; had never felt as hollow as she had when she saw the colors of the world recede, and watched him fade as she held him down, his life taken by her hands. For her sister, she had killed her soulmate. Hawke had never felt such regret. 

She didn’t move from atop the boy until Bethany physically pried her off what seemed like hours later. Then they ran, numb, back to their house, where they told their father of the kill, Hawke omitting that the boy she’d slain had been  _ hers _ , and that every second since he’d been gone had eaten at her like a physical pain. Then, quickly, they packed and ran, the first of many such endeavors, and moved to a new land where Bethany had yet to be threatened. 

And Hawke tried to move on. 

But she could never quite be the same after that. She couldn’t even  _ touch _ a dagger without being so thrown that she would nearly hurl. The thought of using them again, as she had, to disarm your enemy in close quarters,  _ to touch them and feel the color come and go _ was too much. So, for ‘convenience's sake’, she had said, she begged her father to help her take up the bow, and had begun to wear armor that covered every inch of her skin, save her face, so that for no reason would she ever be forced to touch another again. She would still touch Bethany, of course. Or her mother, father or Carver. She knew what their touch would do. She was still reserved, however, even with them; was much more scarce about the occasions on which she would reach for them. But no one new was to touch her, ever. His skin had been the last new skin that she had ever touched, and she had little desire to ever feel another, after what she did. 

She didn’t feel she deserved it. 

So, when Hawke, older now after the blight and settled down with the rest of Kirkwall’s Lowtown scum, had met Varric Tethras for the first time, she was astounded by her first unconscious thought; 

‘ _ Maker, that’s a lot of hair. I wonder how his chest would  _ feel _ if I were to touch it through so much hair..’ _

It was a silly and ridiculous notion, but even more strange yet was that for the first time since that boy, so many years ago, Hawke had desired to touch another. She hadn’t acted upon it, of course, but the inclination had been there, and the implications of such a thought weighed heavily on her mind. She had sworn to herself, long ago, that she’d never feel another; her payment to him, and the life she stole to protect her own. And yet, here was a dwarf, ruggedly handsome, even wittier than she, and even more talented with a bow, and she was enraptured by him, to say the least. But for promise’s sake, she quelled her intrigue well. 

Still, despite her apprehension to become close to the dwarf, to stir the feelings she had already felt for him the moment they’d met, they grew impossibly close. He was her closest friend, the closest outsider that she had ever allowed into her life. They fought aside each other as if two sides of the same coin in every battle Hawke had fought since meeting him, and nearly every night they’d drink themselves to a stupor together, both laughing so hard they’d pass out, right there at their table from the exhaustion of it. There had been many times, then, when under the strong influence of ale, Hawke had longed to reach out and brush the few strands of his hair that would always fall into his bright, lively face out of his eyes. She’d get about halfway there, without a thought, and would stop herself before he would be any the wiser. She would excuse herself, then, claiming a rough morning was in their future, and he’d laugh, and Hawke’s heavy heart would lift, if just for a moment. 

She had fallen in love with him, despite her efforts.

That’s why, when Merrill had asked to touch her, a simple remark that had meant to help Hawke, not hurt her, she was not so much ashamed for her reaction towards Merrill as she was upset to see Varric’s reaction to the endeavor.

He had looked  _ hopeless. _

Like Hawke’s retreat from Merrill had wounded him far worse than the slaver had hurt Hawke’s arm. He had looked at her then as if she were broken, like he had wanted to mend her. As if any second he would try and reach for her and tell her “It’ll be alright, Hawke”.

And she wanted him to. 

Stronger than ever before she had hoped, and craved for him to grab her, to help her up and run his rough hands down her face, soothing her guilt. So she stood, without a word, and retreated back to her home. She needed time away. A week to be exact. 

The next time she saw him her walls were back up, and she was her normal, nonchalant self. Varric seemed unconvinced but did not push the point, thankfully. Should he ask outright her opinions of touch (or how she longed to have his hands run through her hair, on her face,  _ anywhere _ , but would not allow herself this), she did not think she could lie to him. Yet, he did not ask, and she kept up her little facade well enough until sovereigns weighed her pocket so heavily that she was able to pay her way into the Deep Roads with a smiling dwarf by her side.

\-------------------------------------

Bartrand was a piece of nug shit, and if she ever got out of Deep Roads alive she’d make sure to let him know it. 

Betrayed. By Varric’s own brother! Hawke could scarcely believe the reality of their situation; yet here they were, four displaced explorers, trying to find their way through an unfamiliar, underground taige because their original exit had been blocked. And worst of all, she could see it eating at Varric; could see how he was torn between anger and hurt at his brother's actions. Bartrand had never been the prime example of brotherly love, sure, but he had been family. Hawke felt her mind drift unwillingly to her memories of Carver. 

Still, there was little time to dwell. They needed to find an exit, some way out of the taige and back to the rest of their pack, lest they be trapped, by themselves, with a considerable amount of darkspawn. And so Hawke, forever filled with ideas, suggested they split, making sure that she had her favorite dwarf by her side with a well placed comment that Merrill was  _ far _ too fragile in a fight to be with anyone other than a certain brutish, tanky elf.

So they set off, and all was well until Hawke had seen some lights off in the distance and had insisted they take a look. A maze of pillars had welcomed them, then; each one with long lanes of light bouncing between them.  Hawke had been intrigued, and so she had stepped inside. Varric, of course, had followed. 

And now they were trapped. 

An ethereal shield covered the once vacant doorways so they could not leave. However, if the impending horde that was steadily streaming through them was anything to tell by, people, or things, could get  _ in. _ So, they had taken up their usual fighting stance, back to back, touching through clothes Hawke wished, somewhere in the back of her mind, were not there, and were fine until Varric made an unusual move behind her; one that had him momentarily grabbing her side as he presumably missed while grabbing a miasmic flask from around his waist, and she became so terribly distracted that she didn’t even notice the genlock charging at her to the right. 

That’s when things really went to hell. The beast dragged her foot out from under her, and her bow went skittering along the floor, far out reach. And, for the first time since she had slain that boy, years ago, she was forced to draw the daggers she always kept at her side, as a reminder. She was still brilliant with them, slashing to and from with ease, but she was unpracticed and unused to the feel of them in her hands, still, and the memories they brought back had made her woozy. Which is likely why, once she had managed to get herself free, she was helpless as the genlock once again took her by surprise, throwing her into one of the room’s many pillars. Hard, if the sharp, incomparable pain she now felt in her head was anything to go by. She screamed, then, as she saw herself approach the floor. A scream that had meant to  _ say something _ , to call for  _ someone _ , but hadn’t quite become coherent before she hit the stone ground, and the world went black. 

\----------------------------------------------

_ Varric. _

When she awoke, his name seemed to be the only thing her mind was able to comprehend. There he was, right in front of her, altogether the most familiar sight Hawke had ever seen and yet the last thing she had ever expected. 

_ Varric. Varric is here.  _

_ Varric is in color.  _

She gasped. She couldn’t help herself. Her thoughts were now filled with whys, and hows, and whats. And “Varric”; over and over again. He glanced down at her, then, and she was lost in his soft, warm eyes. 

She was breathless. 

“Varric, you’re-” He looked at her sweetly then, but his eyes shown with a certain fear Hawke had never expected to see from the dwarf.

“Yes,  _ Freckles. _ I’m in color now.” Her breath caught. “How’s your head? You got quite a nasty gash from a Genlock earlier.”

_ Freckles.  _ She could almost cry, he was so breathtakingly handsome; shy and reserved like this, and swathed in the most addicting array of colors Hawke could have ever imagined seeing. Then, slowly, the realization came in. 

“So, you’re my…” Her mind was blank. Varric? Varric was her soulmate? Really and truly? The man she was so in love with all these years? Then she was struck with a thought; “It  _ is _ you, right? Not sure I could take it if you told me this…” Her throat closed up at the thought of saying ‘color’, “has come from a certain Lyrium branded elf who has a tendency to throw bottles of perfectly good wine for sport.” 

It was, honestly, just an attempt to lighten the mood. She desperately wanted this harsh atmosphere to dissipate; for her and Varric to once again be swathed in the easy feel they’ve always had together. She wasn’t sure how well it had worked, however, what with the tears that were surely brimming her eyes and her voice shaking as it was. 

And then, Varric was very obviously on the defensive. “Yes, I’m sorry, Hawke. But your blood- you were fading, I could tell. I had to  _ do _ something. I couldn’t let you die. Daisy said if I hadn’t-”

He was choked up. He was, very nearly, in tears. Hawke wanted nothing more than to reach for him and wrap him up and assure him that he had done nothing wrong. That he could never, no matter what he does, do something wrong in Hawke’s eyes. Instead, she shuddered and nodded, desperately trying to be stoic.

“It’s okay, Varric. I understand.”

It was a weak attempt to console him. He deserved so much more than she was able to give him. But a broken woman, like her, could only give so much. Still, he seemed relaxed at this, and, without warning, his hand lifted and moved towards her face. 

For a moment she was still, wanting desperately to feel his calloused touch on her where she had not had the chance to earlier. Then, abruptly, she remembered who she was. What she promised herself she’d never receive. 

She jumped. 

She jumped as far away from Varric as her tired legs could take her from her original position on the floor. She was scattered. She felt as if her desires and her morals were ripping her at the seams. She was afraid of herself, and what all of this would and could mean. She was afraid of him. She was afraid of Varric, and all that he could be. She was gripping at any reason she could think of to avoid this.

“Just-” She choked out, “just don’t do it again, Varric. Thank you, but you don’t have to force yourself.”

Of course, that must be right, she thought. Why would he even  _ want _ her? She was broken, seemingly irreparable and surely unwanted. But when she looked at him she knew she was wrong. Varric was not that kind of man. He was true, and kind, and right now, after her declaration, she had never seen him look so hurt. He looked like he was fighting with himself, trying desperately to come up with some way to respond to Hawke’s words and contradict them convincingly. A few strained, long moments passed in silence and while Hawke waited restlessly for his response, none came. Varric did, however, look sadly resigned to whatever decision he had come to in his mind. 

“Of course,  _ Freckles. _ ” Hawke could feel her face heat up at the endearment. So she hadn’t misheard the first time. He had given her a nickname, finally, after all these years. “I had Daisy and Broody set up a camp a little ways from here. Thought you’d appreciate a clean sleeping area. Wouldn’t want you getting any genlock gore in your pretty hair, now would we?”

_ Pretty?  _ Maker, Varric had somehow become so bold in the last few hours; if Hawke hadn’t been blushing already you could bet Andraste’s ass she was now. Varric, thankfully, had turned away, however, so the dwarven rogue was none the wiser. He held out his, now gloved, hand to Hawke as she took it as he hoisted her up from the ground and led her to the aforementioned camp. Once there it didn’t take long for Hawke’s exhaustion to really settle in. Quickly, she retired to her tent with an equally tired Merrill by her side, and stole one final, secret look at Varric before she slept; a single, stray thought consuming her mind. 

_ Am I deserving of a second chance? _


End file.
